Page 56 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

His eyes search my face, looking for… what? Damage? Signs of coercion? “You look… different.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Dad…”

“Sit.” He gestures to the leather chairs near the fireplace, his CEO persona slipping back into place. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I perch on the edge of the chair, suddenly conscious of Hank’s borrowed shirt under my hastily donned jeans. “Nothing’s ‘going on.’ I’m spending time with people who understand what I’ve been through.”

“Two men?” His voice is carefully neutral. “That’s an unusual arrangement.”

“It is,” I agree, refusing to be shamed. “But it works for us.”

“Us?” He paces in front of the fireplace, the movement betraying his agitation. “Those kinds of relationships are complicated, filled with jealousy and drama. You’ve been through enough trauma?—”

“That’s exactly why it works,” I interrupt. “They understand trauma. They know how to handle it—how to handle me—in a way no one else does.”

He stops pacing, turning to face me directly. “You need therapy, Ally. Not… whatever this is.”

“I don’t need therapy.” The words bite between us. “I need to feel safe. And I do, with them.”

“You can feel safe here, too. With proper security, with?—”

“No, Dad.” I shake my head, standing to meet his gaze evenly. “I can’t. This isn’t about physical safety. It’s about feeling like myself again. Finding who I am after everything that’s happened.”

His expression shifts, frustration giving way to something like resignation. “And who is that? Who are you now, Ally?”

The question catches me off guard. Who am I? The physics prodigy? Quantum expert? Kidnapping survivor? The woman who’s discovering she craves submission to two dominant men?

“I’m still figuring that out,” I admit. “But I know I can’t do it here. Not surrounded by reminders of who I was before.”

He studies me for a long moment, the silence stretching between us. Finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. “You’re not coming home, are you?”

“No.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. “I’m going to see this through. Whatever it is.”

Another long pause. Then, almost reluctantly, “Are they at least good to you?”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Very.”

He grimaces, but there’s a hint of humor behind it. “That’s all I need to know about that.”

“Wise choice.”

He moves to his desk, opening a drawer. “If you’re determined to do this, at least take this.” He pulls out a sleek black credit card, holding it out to me. “It’s yours. Use it for whatever you need.”

I hesitate, not wanting to feel beholden. “Dad…”

“Please.” I perceive an edge of desperation in his voice. “Let me do this one thing for you.”

I take the card, tucking it into my pocket. “Thank you.”

“And you’ll call? Check in?”

“I will.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with the compromise.

My childhood bedroom feels like a museum exhibit dedicated to a person who no longer exists. The pristine white bedspread, the carefully arranged bookshelves, the framed diplomas and awards—all preserved as if in amber.

I drag a suitcase from the closet and begin filling it with essentials. Jeans, T-shirts, sweaters for the cool coastal evenings at Hank and Gabe’s place. Underwear—practical and lacy—because I suspect Hank and Gabe will have opinions about both. My anxiety medication goes safely in a side pocket.

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